


Self-Insert Fanfiction

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Bodice-Ripper, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Fingon is so thirsty he's got to do things himself, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rope Bondage, Size Difference, Size Kink, this elf ought to start a business writing custom porn for people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25897873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Fingon gets bored in Valinor, and his solution is writing about things he wishes would happen. Apparently, what he wishes is that he lived in a terrible 1980s romance novel.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	Self-Insert Fanfiction

_ The tent was small, and modest; to look at it none would guess it belonged to the most feared battle commander in Aman. Findekáno certainly hadn't guessed that this would be his final destination when he was paraded through the camp in chains - surely, Maitimo Fëanárion would have chosen a finer, more opulent living space for himself! - and yet he was marched past lean-tos and kitchens and even a grand pavilion flying the banner of the eight-pointed star before coming to a halt before a nondescript canvas stretched over a modest framework.  _

_ "Here?" one of the guards holding him asked. The commander accompanying them grunted an affirmative, and in a handful of seconds, before Findekáno could even think of trying to flee, he'd been divested of his chains, and all else besides. His wrists were securely bound together by a length of rough cord, and he was half-led half-dragged through the flap of the tent, still shivering from the shock of being so thoroughly stripped. The guard keeping hold of the other end of the cord was waiting for him, and lost no time putting a hand on his shoulder and forcing him to kneel in the uncovered grass.  _

_ "This will keep you from running," he was informed by his captor, who was winding the cord about one of the posts of a low camp bed that was little better than a cot, drawing him closer and closer to the mattress before tying the whole thing off. "Anyway, I'd like to see you try like  _ that." __

_ He shivered in response, blushing furiously; try as he might, he couldn't master the sudden shame and fear that rose up in his thoughts. The guard looked at him, long and slow; there was a gleam in their eye. _

_ "My lord will appreciate you," they said, smirking. "You'd never guess that the Crown Prince was so pretty under all that armor." _

_ He glared up at the other elf, who shrugged, getting to their feet; one more tug to test the knot, and they were gone. Findekáno was left quite alone, shivering and naked; he could do nothing but wait. _

_ The minutes passed, bleeding into hours. Far away, somewhere beyond the flat plain of battle that had been his home for Valar knew how many weeks, the Trees slid from gold to silver, and the world grew dark. Overhead, there would be stars, and on a normal night the air would be full of song and laughter. But this, of course, was not a normal night, and Findekáno cursed himself for his sentimental reminiscing when he was in possibly the most dangerous position of his life. Escape was both apparently impossible and incredibly unwise - even if he did manage to free his hands, he'd be forced to sneak out of an enemy camp, utterly defenseless and completely vulnerable. Even the most cursory glance would reveal him as an outsider.  _

So I wait, _ he thought, no longer able to ignore the anxious fear that was slowly turning his heart to ice.  _ But _ \-  _

_ \-  _ what does he _ want  _ with me?

_ His answer came far sooner than he'd expected, with a rustle of cloth at the entrance to his prison. Someone was coming into the modest tent, someone tall and broad enough to fill the whole of the gap in the canvas and blot out the silvery dark beyond. He shivered again, shrinking into himself, watching as whoever it was stepped completely into the canvas-walled room and straightened up to their full height. They filled the whole space, almost, looming impossibly tall; there was a glint of eyes in the black like sparks of starlight, and when he saw them Findekáno found himself frozen in place by some emotion he could not name. His heart was pounding in his ears, the world seeming to pulse and twist in time with the throbbing of his blood. He was terrified, and strangely exhilarated.  _

_ All at once, there was light, sharp and blazing. The elf before him had drawn a small stone out of some pouch or pocket, and now it shone like a drop of water caught in Laurelin's glow, bright enough to make the tent seem like a refugee from the far-off day. There was nowhere to hide, no soft shadow to cloak his skin in, only stark illumination from the little crystal that its bearer set in a small wire frame that hung from a tent pole.  _

_ As his eyes adjusted, Findekáno found himself staring at his companion -  _ captor? _ \- and despite his fear, or because of it, he could not tear his gaze away. This, surely, was the infamous Nelyafinwë Maitimo - easily eight and a half feet tall, head and shoulders above all others of his people, crowned with glorious red hair that fell to his waist. Without his armor he would already be broad-chested and solid, every muscle chiseled and defined;  _ with  _ his armor, he was absolutely massive. Every inch of him was powerful, every step confident. His expression was haughty, and his mouth proud; when he looked down at his prisoner, his eyes seemed to burn, turning forge-hot and hungry.  _

_ Findekáno's mouth went dry, and he couldn't help the faint whimper that escaped his throat. _

_ That made Maitimo chuckle.  _

_ "So," he said, voice deep and decisive and warm in a way that promised endless pain if he were not obeyed, "this is the so-called Crown Prince." _

_ Findekáno was blushing again, finding it harder and harder to take a breath.  _ Ercamando, _ he thought frantically, eyes fixed on his captor's every move as the other nér stepped closer to him,  _ he's  _ impossible, _ I must be dead already, there's no way he's _ real,  _ is there? 

_ Ragged breaths echoed in the air between where he knelt and where Maitimo stood, and when at last they were near enough that he would have to twist his neck up to see those burning eyes, he shuddered and dropped his head down to stare at the grass. He felt as if a spell had broken, and he was reeling from the weight of it in the aftermath of its impact.  _

_ "Nothing to say?" Maitimo asked, sounding somewhere between bemused and disgusted. "Hm. I'm disappointed. I would have thought the eldest son of such a gifted rhetorician would be blessed with a more talented tongue." _

_ "Even if I were," Findekáno said, and as he spoke he gaped at himself for his brash defiance, "I wouldn't bother wasting it on  _ you." __

_ When he snapped his head up to glare at his captor, he found himself stopped by the sensation of cold steel against his bare throat. Somehow, without making a sound, Maitimo had drawn his sword; the blade now lay against his skin.  _

_ "I think it would do to remember the precarious nature of your position," the other  _ nér  _ said coolly, but there was a deep undertone to his voice that sent shivers down Findekáno's spine in spite of everything.  _

_ "And that would be?" _

_ "You're mine," Maitimo explained, each word calm and flat and careless. "It's my forces who caught you, my prowess in battle that outmatched your own. I won, and I claim you as my prize."  _

_ Findekáno had to fight back another whimper, this one louder than before; he knew Maitimo had heard it, and he found himself blushing even more deeply. He tried to drop his gaze again, only for the sword to shift against his throat, forcing him to look back up at the burning eyes that seemed to pierce right through him effortlessly.  _

_ "I - I'm no one's but my own," he answered. His throat was drier still, and swallowing only made it worse. _

_ "Hm," his enemy replied, raising a crimson eyebrow in a mockery of thought. "You know, I'd consider your argument if it weren't so obviously flawed." _

_ "And the flaw would be?" _

_ "Simple," Maitimo answered, laughing. The sound of his laughter echoed through Findekáno's body, driving him to even deeper blushes as it seemed to go straight to his groin. "I'm not the one on my knees, bound to my greatest enemy's bed."  _

_ "Greater escapes have happened," Findekáno retorted, fighting back a frightened moan that was fast rising out of his lungs. There was a pressure and a heat at his hips that could only mean one thing; he was filled with revulsion, and with a strange desire that he wished he could say was unwelcome and horrific. _

_ "Greater escapes  _ have  _ happened," Maitimo agreed, "though never when the fleeing captive was in such a pitiful state." He reached down with one massive gloved hand, easily undoing the knot that kept Findekáno tied to the bedpost with a single twist of his fingers; his wrist circled the post almost thoughtlessly as he continued to speak, unwinding the cord as he went. "Of course, you won't be so needy for very long." _

_ "I - what?" Findekáno asked, jerked up out of a fearful haze of unfamiliar wants. Every word, every glance, every movement and gesture that Maitimo made, seemed to go right to his hips and his now-throbbing cock, and nothing  _ he  _ could do would cover that from the too-observant eyes of the other  _ nér. __

_ "You heard me," Maitimo said, unwinding the last of the cord and drawing it taut with a snap that jerked the kneeling  _ elda  _ away from the bed. He knelt down, sinking to the earth, somehow tucking his sword back into its scabbard as he went. One knee rose up like a pillar of unshaking stone, and Findekáno couldn't help but stare at it until his face was firmly turned up to look at his captor by the other gloved hand.  _

_ "I have no intention of leaving you so deprived," Maitimo told him. "You  _ want  _ me, Findekáno." _

_Another moan, this time far louder; Findekáno squirmed beneath the implacable gaze that seemed to refuse to let him escape._ How does he know my name?

And why don’t I mind him using it?

_ "I - no," he said, protesting, though he barely knew what it was that forced his mouth to open. "No, I - I don't -  _ ah  _ \- !" _

_ His words were cut off by the hand lifting his head up, forcing him to arch upward with it, leaving him utterly bare and practically offering himself to his captor.  _

_ "You want me," Maitimo said, and the burning eyes were sinking into every inch of him. "Don't bother denying it." _

_ “I - I don’t - !” _

_ Maitimo sighed; it was a disappointed, almost condescending sound, like a tutor confronted with a particularly dense student. His eyes roved over the bound form before him, evidently pleased with what they saw. _

_ “You can’t stop staring at me,” he said, lifting the hand that had been at Findekáno’s throat to stroke his face, “and you’re obviously,  _ painfully  _ hard.” _

_ “I’m not - !” Findekáno protested, but when Maitimo laughed at him he found himself facing a painful pressure between his legs and he fell into abashed silence. His captor’s smile turned dark and knowing, and that made him ache even more. He wanted to look away; the hand on his face kept him immobile and helpless.  _

_ “You’re still not convinced,” Maitimo said, his words low and hot and hungry. Something shifted in his eyes, and suddenly they turned molten, crucible-sharp. There was a hand on Findekáno’s head, running leather-clad fingers through his hair. He hadn’t noticed that Maitimo had let the cord binding him drop into his lap. _

_ “I - !” _

_ “Hush,” the other  _ nér  _ commanded; there was a weight to his voice that demanded obedience, and so Findekáno obeyed.  _

_ Maitimo smiled at him still. “There,” he said, and his hand was working at the braid hanging down his captive’s back. “I know what you need. Don’t speak unless I say to.” _

_ “But - !” Findekáno answered; Maitimo replied with a burning glare that forced him into silence again. There was a tug and a  _ pop  _ of something giving behind his head; his hair sprung out of its braid and fell over his shoulders.  _

_ “That’s better, I think,” Maitimo said, his free hand trailing through the dark curls. “You’re far prettier like this. One thing more, and then I’ll take care of that sweet little prick of yours.” His hand slid over Findekáno’s shoulders and torso, down to his hips and thighs, until he could pick up the length of cord once again. _

_ “You won’t need your hands for some time,” he explained, lifting the cord up and draping it over brown shoulders. “I’ll have something more permanent made for you, but for now, this will do.” A few deft flicks of the wrist later, and Findekáno’s neck was encircled by a loose but sturdy collar, its end tied to the knot that bound his wrists. His arms were folded up against his chest, interlocking fingers resting just under his collarbone.  _

_ “There,” Maitimo said, letting go of the cord. “You’ll keep very nicely.” _

_ Findekáno knew better than to follow his first instinct and tug at the knots, or raise his arms over his head; Maitimo seemed to see his acquiescence in his face, and he laughed again.  _

_ “Now,” he said, “about that prick of yours.”  _

_ His hands lost no time in moving, roving over toned muscle beneath soft skin. The one that had been at his throat settled in his hair, taking hold of a fistful of it and forcing him to arch up once more; the other went to his hips, and lost no time exploring what it found there. _

_ “Oh, you poor thing,” Maitimo almost purred, and the desire in his voice turned Findekáno’s legs to aspic. “Hard, and already weeping for my touch.” _

_ “I - !” Findekáno tried to say, only to be silenced by a brazen, possessive kiss. He was overpowered utterly, mouth plundered by the far-larger  _ nér  _ who held him fast, and he could feel his cock dripping onto the glove that grasped it. _

_ “Hush,” Maitimo ordered again when they drew apart. “I’m the only one doing the talking.” There was a sudden softness in his words, and that combined with all else made Findekáno moan and shiver and go completely limp in his captor’s arms. _

_ “Good,” Maitimo said. “Good.” The hand at his hips dipped lower, easing his thighs apart until they too began to ache. “You won’t ever hide yourself from me,” he said, fingers probing and positioning. “When I tell you to kneel, this is what I want.”  _

_ Findekáno moaned, unable to do more; Maitimo chuckled and returned his hand to its former place. _

_ “So,” he mused, tracing almost lazy circles around his captive’s flesh, “you say you don’t want me. Hadn’t we better test that? I don’t keep things that don’t want me; if what you say is true, you ought to be free to go.”  _

_ Findekáno whimpered. Every touch of leather on skin was sparking something within him that he’d never felt before, and all around him was the implacable, inescapable truth of Maitimo in armor, easily twice his size and all too capable of breaking him apart.  _

_“Of course,” Maitimo_ _continued, “if you_ do _want me...”_

_ His voice trailed off as his hand curled around Findekáno’s cock again, settling at the base. For a moment, all was still, and quiet, as if the world outside had remembered they existed and flooded into the tiny tent - _

_ \- and then Maitimo’s hand began to move. _

_ Findekáno cried out, shuddering and shaking, as he was easily and methodically stroked off by someone who seemed to know every weakness his body had to offer. Each shift of the massive wrist brought a new plaintive cry up out of his throat, and each passing second seemed to drive the undeniable truth deeper into his mind - this was easily the best thing he’d ever felt. Maitimo was at once pleasuring and exploring him, fingers probing his cock and coaxing every bit of sensation from it; he knew as surely as anything that he was being well and truly ruined for the touch of anyone else. _

_ “Legs apart,” Maitimo commanded when a shiver made him shift; he obeyed unthinkingly, barely considering what that must mean. He was rewarded with a low chuckle and a thumb running over the head of his cock.  _

_ “Come for me, Findekáno,” Maitimo murmured, and he had no choice but to obey a second time, spilling out over his captor’s hand. And then it was over, and the heat was gone from his hips, and he was left blushing and realizing exactly what it was he’d done. _

_ “See?” Maitimo asked, lifting the stained glove up, using one finger of it to tilt his chin further upward until they were staring at one another again. “I told you that you wanted me. And now, you ought to clean up your mess, don’t you think?” _

The door opened before Findekáno could call out, and he flinched so violently he almost jumped out of his seat.

“We’re going to be late if we don’t leave now,” Írissë said; she was standing in the doorway, wearing a long white gown studded with pale crystal at the shoulder. 

“Right,” Findekáno said, straightening up and putting the pile of neatly cut parchment pages he’d been working on back into the open drawer they’d emerged from. “Thank you; I’d quite lost track of time.” He shut the drawer and locked it, sliding the key into a pocket of his robe. 

“What were you writing?” his sister asked as he stood up and brushed off the dust from his clothes. 

“Nothing in particular,” he said. “Agricultural proposals for the next harvest out on Ammë’s family holdings.”

“You certainly found them scintillating,” Írissë teased as he reached the door. 

“Well,” he admitted with a smile, “maybe I was born to be a farmer. You never know.”


End file.
